


Changes Irreversible

by jattendrai (orphan_account)



Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Running Away, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jattendrai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s scary to think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L’esprit De L’escalier

**Author's Note:**

> Probably my last fic ??? Idk, I originally wanted to drop writing back in the 2012, but this ship actually got me back into it thinking maybe I could pick it back up.
> 
> I guess not. :^/  
> It was fun writing for this ship anyway, kinda sucks that I have to drop it, but let the chips fall where they may I guess

It’s that disgusting type of romance. 

They met in highschool; Sophomore year, when ugly windbreakers were in fashion and the Freshmen started wearing heelies to school. Everybody was driving their parents’ Firebird or taking the six o’clock bus to school, hoping to god the driver wasn’t the redhead who once broke a window trying to get the kids to calm down.

Lucas could only remember the beginning of Sophomore year, since everything else is one hell of a shitshow. It was hell, kind of. Everything highschool sort of is; getting fined for truancy all because you ditched every morning to go to the fast food place near the football field; classes being pretty ok except for that one class ( for Lucas it’s biological science,) where the teacher is a madman.

Guy pairs him up with the goth kid of the class on the first day to look at rocks with.

He’s like breaching on goth actually. Can’t tell what he is; like, he has the dyed black hair and the eyeliner ( nicely done though, it looks liquid), so there’s a high possibility he is, but he also has on flip-flops and a flannel on. Never seen a goth wear a red flannel.

An enigma? Maybe. Or he’s tired.

Aren’t goths suppose to be enigmas?

While Lucas was too busy staring at the kid’s ugly, brown flip-flops, he was chalantly taking out his phone and googling up rock characteristics. 

“ That’s cheating you know,” Lucas leans in as he scrolls through a Wikipedia article on Feldspar.

“ Do  _ you _ want to look at pretty grey rocks for an hour?”

 

Feldspar, Hematite, Obsidian, Flint ( “ Hey, my dad’s named Flint!” “ I’m sorry to hear that,” ) Talc, Conglomerate, and Quartz.

They were done within twenty minutes.

They took a table in the back, far from the large cluster of kids near the left where teachers were running back and forth between skirted chairs and kids who won’t budge, helping the poor far-sighted kids figure out what a cleavage is. Time flies quickly when you cheat, but not so much afterwards when you just kind of sit there side-eyeing what your partner has up on his phone.

“ What do you do on that phone all day…. Y’know, besides cheating,”

“ None of your business,” he doesn’t even look up.

It takes a while to get to him -- a very reserved kid, it seems. He stands just below Lucas’ nose and always has this aggressive look on his face. Maybe it’s just the way his lips curl or how his eyebrows always seem to fold in like he’s thinking. Kid looks ready to take down God Himself with his bare hands.

But he gets through to him. It just took a bit.

Like a month. A full month.

But soon it becomes easy to talk to him. A distant friendship consisting of ragging on your classmates and hoping the teacher doesn’t see you tipping in your chair to lay on the beaker table.  _ Four on the floor _ , Pittoo promises as an elbow misses and he hits linoleum.

Nothing much is brought up about family, or friends, or even much of themselves. It’s that sort of ‘shooting-the-shit’ type of friendship, with tidbits of yourself thrown in; they both dye their hair, are failing Geometry, can’t stand the food at the school yet have to eat it. 

Don’t know why, but Lucas finds a fondness for his partner; he likes the way his smile is small and quick, and how the freckles on his face dot all the way to his ears; he likes to play footsie when the teacher is talking, though he’s sure it started out as a trick to try and tip his stool after Lucas laughed at him that time -- but he loosens up, becomes playful, but one day he finally gets it, and they laugh it off together as the teacher frowns and gets his ‘yelling voice’ ready.

It was going well.

 

* * *

 

 

Next Quarter and he changes out of Lucas’ science class. There’s an A and B lunch, and usually kids get switched and put into some different classes for the lunches, but not during Quarter; was it because of him that he switched? Lucas wasn’t a bad science partner, at least he doesn’t think so; he kind of went along with Pittoo’s cheating, not saying anything when he shows up late to class either.

It would be weird to try and track him down, wouldn’t it. Scale the entire school, a two-level with wings bigger than the parking lot, trying to find your science partner who spent more time nose-first in his phone than looking at your face. Maybe he’ll get the same lunch as Lucas next semester, or find him in the halls one day. 

Or maybe he is in the same lunch, ‘cause Lucas is looking at someone four tables down that looks just  _ like _ him -- like, to an uncanny amount. Even has the unscathed, ugly flip-flops on. Lucas stares at him and little group while completely forgetting his table mate, Kumatora, who is breathing down his neck and teetering on her chair as he looks on.

“ That can’t be him.”

“You  _ just _ said it’s him, he even has those ugly flip flops you pointed out. Nobody wears flip flops in November, Lucas.  _ Nobody _ .”

“ What if they’re just, like, a twin or something.”

“ Maybe a  _ dopplegänger... _ ” She says a little too close to Lucas’ ear.

“ Kuma!”

“ --- or maybe you just have shitty eyesight!” Kumatora kicks back in her chair, nearly tipping it, “ Just stop being pansy and go up to him. You got a fifty-fifty shot here.”

Lucas looks back at him, dropping his milk back on the tray but making no motion to even more. Maybe he’l never move again, just sit there all his life with anxiety stuck in his throat like the lunch at this school.

Kumatora shoves her boot into his side, and he’s up and wafting through the tables in an instance.

There’s people at the table Lucas has never seen around the school, not a single one; a blonde boy with piercings in his ear and an ugly green hat, a girl with pink hair and a fondness for looking like a 21st century Raggedy Ann, and a kid who’s probably still stuck in the early 80’s next to an empty lunch tray.

What do you usually do when approaching a group of random people who you’ve never spoken to; Wait near the side for all of them to look at you? Sit in the empty chair and straight up ask your target something, or maybe awkwardly wave the attention to you?

Well Lucas doesn’t know about any of that, and instead slams his hands on the chair the boy, who is suddenly made very aware of as not being Pittoo, is sitting on.

A curse flies out of his mouth again as he meets eyes with the possible doppelganger of his science partner. Same eyes that dip a bit at the sides where their eyeliner thickens, same dark freckled face, same  _ hair  _ ( but different colors? Is that why he dyes it?), hell they even got the same strange look of not closing their mouth all the way.

“ Y-you’re, you’re not Pittoo, are you?” Is all his shaky voice can make. Raggedy Ann snorts.

“ No, but I get that a lot. Whatcha need ‘em for?” Kid speaks in a slight accent. What is that, southern? No manners, either, can’t even bother for a name.

“ Um, I just needed to tell him something,”

“ Well he takes double lunch, y’know,” His eyes wander to the corner of the lunch room where the hall doors stood, “ I think in the Mechanics room?”

“ Oh, um… thanks.” Where the fuck is Mechanics? The back?

“ No problem!”

You know, you don’t notice a lot of things when you’re worrying -- like how Lucas never noticed his shaking death grip on the seat of Pittoo’s doppelganger.

“ Hey um…. Are you like, Pittoo’s twin or something?”

“ Yeah, we’re identical.”

“ I got a fraternal twin,”

“ Yeah?”

“ Yeah... he’s an ass.”

And off he went.

 

* * *

 

Mechanics is often shown as the place for ruffians, the greasers, the no-gooders getting that extra bit of discipline help that puts them in place; in all actuality, it’s the waiting from for white boys who don’t wear deodorant and what may be the next rocket scientists knocking at rusty bicycles the Freshmen brought in. The place smells like oil, looks like a DIY shed, and has acoustics that puts the cramped band room to shame.

And there he is, the boy of the hour, on top of one of the ugliest cars known to man; the 1992 Mercury Grand Marquis. Comparing it to the Trans Am GTAs next to it would be like comparing a Kayak to a Battleship; it goes past the parking tape and everything. Not a clean sight.

And on closer inspection, it’s rear is touching the concrete.

“ So you never thought to mention  _ your _ twin to me, either.”

He shoots around so fast you can almost see the momentum in the way the car bounces.

“  _ Lucas _ .”

“ Where’d you go?” He shoves his sweaty hands into his pocket cause  _ god _ they won’t stop shaking.

“ What?”

“ Science class,” Lucas moves closer and touches the dent on the bumper with his shoe,” You left me.”

“ What,  _ do you miss me _ ?” He smiles, and that’s the first time Lucas has ever seen him do it too. Too bad it’s a shit-eating grin like the one his brother always gives him.

“ I need somebody to cheat for me.” Being funny only makes your hands shake more.

But he laughs kinda, and Lucas laughs too. Some boys in the back drop a toolbox and his smile and leaves. Sucks too; it’s cute.

“ Can we like, at least hang out after school or something? Can I have your number?”

“ Woah woah woah,” He turns so all of him is facing Lucas, still criss-cross, “ sounds like you’re asking me out on a date.”

“ I am not!” is this flirting? “.....you’re not  _ anywhere _ close to my type.”

“ Girls?”

“  _ Blondes _ .”

Their laugh echoes among the sound of wrenches hitting the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s around a week later, and it all feels like a blur. Lucas finds himself circling the outdoor track with Pittoo while he waits for his ride; Kumatora leaves school two classes earlier for a job, supposedly, and always gives him a ride home after school, while Pit stays after with a friend for tutoring.

Things feel awkward, and Pittoo pulls out his phone again and it bothers him because he always does that when things get silent, never trying to break the ice or bring anything up -- kind of like a barrier, or a fallback.

He wants to talk to him more, to be closer to him, but it’s hard to do that when a kid keeps shutting himself out, but he wants to tell him how he feels, and he does, and Pittoo drops his phone in the snow.

They look at it for a minute.

“ You made me drop my phone.”

“ I’m sorry.”

“ You made your  _ boyfriend _ drop his phone, I need something more than a sorry.”


	2. Je pense tellement á toi

It’s the beginning of Junior year, around three days after the Wake. The sound of the school bus making a mad dash down his street is the only signal that it’s even morning; the blinds are closed, the door is closed, and there’s around two layers of blankets encasing him like a mummy. Lucas makes no move to get out of bed. Fuck the first day of school.

_ This morning, at around 10:40 a.m. CT, an emergency call was made to 911 reporting an accident off Highway D -- _

Everything has been turned off; The TV hasn’t been on all week, and all the phones’ cords were ripped from the wall; Mail was piling up, too. Most of it was just bills. No lights were on in the house either. Everything was silent, and weak, and untouched. Nothing should be touched. Nothing.

\--  _ the victims were one adult and one child, Hinawa and Claus Tazmily _ -

His room was a minefield and Lucas almost couldn’t bring himself to move. His shirts were tossed on the floor all around, his posters plastered over layer by layer to the point where you couldn’t remember what color the room was. There were games that could no longer be played; a bed that could no longer be made; clothes that will never be worn.

\--  _ Hinawa was suspected to have died on impact, while Claus was brought to a nearby hospital, suffering cranial injuries and a dislocated shoulder  _ \--

Last he saw his father was walking up the stairs before slamming the bedroom door. He tossed his loafers down the stairs, and they still sit there at the very bottom in a pathetic state, right near his mother’s dainty slippers pointing together at the toes. He walks over them. 

Lucas looks down at his suit, wrinkled and dirty from constant wear. It doesn’t matter.

\--  _ but was accounted as DOA. _

It just hurts. There’s nothing to it but hurt. There’s no breakdowns, or empty fighting and pointless yelling, or slamming doors and empty Brandy bottles. There’s no church hymns or candlelight vigils or a cross erected down the highway -- It’s just hurt, and silence, and the sound of Lucas’ ankles cracking as he goes through the kitchen. There’s nothing to fill in the silence that could ever bring back what used to be. Like a broken record that won’t play the tune the same way ever again.

If only you could sleep the school year away.

 

There’s nothing to eat in the house. 

They were going shopping when it happened.

“ I’m going out.” Lucas calls, not suspecting an answer.

He drops the blanket in the living room and tosses his jacket into the closet near the door, kicks on his shoes and leaves. He didn’t grab any money. He doesn’t live anywhere near a fast food place.

“ I’ll be back.” He calls to a window with no light on.

 

There’s a payphone outside an old gas station around four miles where he lives. The walk is a mess of crossing the streets without looking at the walk sign, bicyclists passing by him in blurs of color, stumbling along with the drunks and the other kids who don’t want to go home.

The only phone number he can remember is Kumatora’s, but she broke her phone; Pittoo’s number is still in his pocket, right on that small piece of paper he slipped him after their first kiss.

One of the only good memories of that time.

“ I need you to come get me.”

It was in his car -- the ugly Marquis, which still didn’t have it’s shocks fixed, but at that point donned a lovely hook cord holding down the trunk ever since it’s lock broke off while scraping. 

“ Wait -- Lucas, where are you?”

It was hot. Like eighty-degrees, which is huge for a midwest night. They were parked in a community drive-in showing _ The Blair Witch _ on a mess of tarps. They decided to stay in the car instead of do what every jackass does and sit on their roof.

“ The Shells -- the shitty one, near the river.”

They kicked their feet up on the dashboard and commentated on the movie the whole time, it was just so shit. Luckily it was free, but there were couples honestly cuddling together in fear next to them, and it was funny, and Pittoo reached for Lucas hand and threatened that if he asked if he was scared he’ll toss him into the backseat, and Lucas laughed and took his hand in his despite how sweaty his were.

“ I’ll b-be there in a minute -- Pit, go take the bus!”

A small voice echoed through the receiver, “ Wait, what?!”

It was boring and cheesy, and Lucas was about to fall asleep when he pressed his head to Pittoo’s shoulder, and he could hear him suck in a deep breath, and everything got quiet in the movie but you could sort of hear someone bumpin’ Kriss Kross a few cars away, and soon Lucas was up and something was touching his thigh and Pittoo was kissing him.

“ Go take the damn bus!”

He was kissing him.

The receiver was ringing useless white noise, but Lucas didn’t put it back. He just stood there, holding it to his ear, huddling his head into the phone box as cars passed and people came and went through the doors.

Kid must’ve tanked through his gas to get there in under five minutes. As soon as he got in his boyfriend had his arms around him, and everything was silent.

But it wasn’t a bad silence.

 


	3. Tu es bête

New year, Junior year coming to a closing. Everything is a blur really.

There were Track tryouts. Pittoo signed up with his brother, not thinking much of it; Lucas took a job at the local grocery store as a bagger, saving up money to help his father. 

He always shows up to all their events, even the ones at schools far enough away to where their mother wouldn’t even make the treck. Hasn’t missed a single one; always there, cheering his boyfriend on at the 5k. He comments on the length of Pittoo’s running shorts, to where he threatens Lucas with a Discus to the head.

It’s getting warmer, but not by much. There’s still some snow on the ground from that heavy fall.

Lucas keeps fucking his job up. Dropping precious foods, forgetting what to stack on what; they placed him in a back for a bit, helping unbox and organize everything, but price stickers are placed on the wrong cans and carts are forgotten on the loading station. He’s fired around a month later.

“ There’s a Guitar Center downtown. They take clumsy teenagers all the time,” was the last text he’ll receive from Kumatora before she smashes her phone in a fit outside a Shell station.

Money is sparse, free time is very little. Pittoo tries to get around with his car, meeting Lucas on corner streets and in quiet meetings. He’s never seen Lucas’ father, before, but he has a vague idea; cowboy-ish, moustache, those spooky eyes that always look angry. He’s distant recently, Lucas says in distaste. Doesn’t seem like somebody worth meeting.

There’s a man who works with Lucas in the late shift -- Duster. A bit of an older guy, maybe a college senior; he has one of those ragtime moustaches, and has a bulky brace attached to his left leg that reaches all the way to his hip. He plays the bass in back when work is slow, and tries teaching a bit on an old model guitar that nobody ever bought. Duster gives Lucas rides home when it’s too dark to walk.

 

* * *

  
  


Dates are…. A mess, to say the least. From movie theatres where the tickets are cheap and the seats squeak ( hard to do anything with squeaky chairs, trust me) and park dates where Lucas insists on going down the kitty slide or climbing on the playground equipment until one of them falls in the hellpit of woodchips scattering the ground. There’s a little bungalow-type area right before a twisty slide, and people love decorating it in scratch graffiti and testaments of love in Sharpie bought from the Walgreen’s a block away. Lucas wrote a crude joke near the bottom.

Sometimes they just drive. Lucas promises to pay for gas, though they know he doesn’t have much money to spare; it’s fine though, it’s nice to be out of the house. They drive around the evening, watching as tiny cars pass and couples on the sidewalk blur into a swatch of colors. There’s not a lot downtown; just a few bars, the cinema, an ice cream place, and some shops with useless antiques and clothes too ugly to wear in public.

They talk about the future sometimes. What they want to be. Pittoo wants to do something with aviation; Lucas says he’ll overun the Guitar Center within a year. ‘Just watch me’, he says.

“ It’s  _ right _ on the edge of town. Not downtown, but like the side of town. The ass of downtown.”

It’s officially spring, and Prom is in a week.

Flint -- Lucas’ dad, who Pittoo still hasn’t seen -- bought a small apartment downtown, where each block connects to each other, the windows endless on brick; where everybody goes for cheap drinks and loud parties. Money is tight; the house is up for sale. They had two weeks to get out. Pittoo vaguely remembers being down there once; he had to drive Pit to his friend’s house, a chubby kid who dressed funny and hung out in the streets with his bike.

“ It’s super small, like….. Three rooms? That’s counting all the rooms. The kitchen and living room are the same thing,” he tucks his hands in his jacket, “ luckily I still get my own room. The guy I work with lives down there……. It can’t be that bad….”

 

* * *

 

 

Prom was fun. The music was a bit --- well, shit; nothing but cheap top hits mixed in with unknown bands of a genre only the Disc Jockey liked. Kumatora crashed their parade for a bit; hung around them awkwardly in the dark, prodding Pittoo with questions as Lucas laughed and lounged his legs in her lap. She was drunk, and loud, and attracting attention to all them; three things they wished wouldn’t happen.

“ Why don’t you two come and dance,” her voice is the loudest over the music.

“ I don’t dance,” Pittoo eyed the beer she was hiding under the chair.

“ Fine, then me and _ your boyfriend _ will dance!”

She took him by the wrist and dragged him like a fish out of water. Now it was Pittoo’s turn to laugh at them, striking ridiculous poses and messily trying to time their footing with each other. It was one of the only time Kumatora ever hung around with Pittoo, and it was quite the first impression; covered in glitter, in a tux, drunk off her ass. Nobody caught her, either.

Good to know Lucas had friends who could bring a smile to his face.

 

They planned on hooking up that night -- to get it over with before Senior year, before they both turned eighteen -- but Lucas got scared in the middle of it and tossed Pittoo off of him in a fit, causing him to bash the back of his head against the nightstand. There were awkward sorrys and eyes not meeting each other before Lucas fell asleep and Pittoo slid under the sheets.

They never talked about it ever again.

 

* * *

 

 

The apartment is small, and cramped, and doesn’t feel like home.

Lucas hung posters and aced tests on the walls, all of which were small and thin, plastered in a white that has seen better days. His bunk bed that he shared with --- Him --- was slashed into a single, the other bit folded and shoved underneath. All he has for storage is a single dresser with dinosaur paper on the inside and a spare moving box.

But the balcony, oh the balcony; a large sliding-glass window sat across his bed. Guess this was meant to be the living room, though it’s the smallest room in the apartment. He likes the view; it looks out to the street, right before a lamp that glowed in vapor. All the lights of the block in front of him are on, and vibrant, and full of life, and the faint stars above the skies are always there for him.

They spend nights out there, on the balcony, when Flint has gone to bed and the world was quiet. Pittoo liked dangling his legs through the bars, while Lucas took to a rainbow recliner chair he stole from the storage garage.

They kiss there, and listen to music there, and talk about what they have in store for the Finals, and what’s been on TV and what albums they’ve been listening to recently. It’s peaceful out there; it disconnects Lucas from the world inside--- the world with Hinawa and Claus.

“ Do you…. Do you wanna talk about it?” Pittoo asks reluctantly, watching as Lucas adds on another can to his railing of Diet Coke glasses.

There’s a bit of silence.

“ Well, uh….. Claus um…..” He gripped the rail, “ Claus was a cool brother, I guess.”

Twins. Unusual Twinning, it was called; next-level identical twins. While Lucas had the dark hair ( dyes it blonde, is actually a natural brunette; who knew?) and brown skin, Claus had light skin like their dad, with bright orange hair and freckles overtaking his face. Claus got most of his father’s traits; a tough build, long legs, a stout jaw with a hooked nose. Lucas got his mother’s looks; soft, dark hair, slender hands, and a long flat nose.

Claus did get something from Lucas though.

“ It’s called Chimerism. It’s when something happens in the developing stage and one twin gets something from the other twin. Sometimes it’s body parts.”

“ Christ.”

“ Luckily he just got one brown eye and like, an entire arm ten shades darker than me. That was the only way they could tell us apart at first.”

They trail off some afterwards, instead playing Punchbuggy and listening to the party going on three stories down, and Hinawa is never brought up. Let the words die where they lay.

 

* * *

 

 

Duster visits, luckily when Flint is out of the house. He brings the old guitar from the back, saying he used his employee discount to buy it for Lucas. A housewarming gift.

Something goes unsaid.

 

 

 


	4. Pourquoi je meurs

Kumatora graduates this year. It’s a good time for her; all smiley and proud in her white robe and flashy pink bob, marching down the long aisle of curious eyes and the few kids who wish they could rock such hot pink locks.

Everybody is given two tickets to graduation; so she gave one to Lucas and tossed the other out.

He watches from near the entrance, watching as she shakes hands with their somewhat evil-looking Principle who had always  _ hated _ her hair, and listening to the band belt out a horrible version of  _ Pomp and Circumstance March No.1  _ \--- even more overplayed than the _ Star Wars  _ theme.

The year is closing in, and soon Lucas will be a Senior, and so will Pittoo.

And everything has blurred together since Sophomore year. There’s memories that simply can’t be remembered, and months of school that has been forgotten and knowledge that will never be used. It’s all just….. Fuzzy.

It hurts.

 

* * *

 

 

Had a run-in with Pit again.

Came in without knocking to throw Pittoo’s dirty shirt at him, found Lucas perched on top of his brother before being kicked off at the speed of light. Not exactly surprised, but wasn’t ready for it. “ Don’t you dare tell mom!” His brother yelled before pushing him out in the hall and slamming the door on him.

This happens two more times before Lucas helps him set up a lock system with a chair.

 

* * *

 

 

“ You got a squeaky bed,” Pittoo hopped on the sheets, somewhat smiling at the ridiculous creaking.

“Don’t break it now, it’s all I got.”

Lucas moves their hands to his chest, and it calms him a bit, but soon he finds himself moving up along his neck, carefully brushing his thumb to his cheek as his fingers slipped into his soft hair. Lucas seemed to relax against the touch, dipping his head to the side a bit and closing his eyes.

“ We’re going to be Seniors…”

It’s scary to think about.


	5. Je suis facile

Lucas ran away.

A week before Senior year, and he runs away.

It started from a small argument, or maybe it happened because of it. We won’t know, but he wanted to get away from town and away from his father, and he wanted Pittoo to come with him. He had it all perfectly planned out on the balcony, gesturing to the dufflebag hidden under his bed that reminded Pittoo so much of the cheap plastic bag under his.

The next town over, maybe with Kumatora; it originally was just to get out of the apartment. He offered to house him for a little bit, but Lucas looked for something more. He wanted to take Pittoo with him.

“ What about high school?”

“ It’s just Senior year.”

There was nothing left for him here, he said. Everything was taken from him in this town and he didn’t want to be anywhere near it anymore. There was so little he had left.

Pittoo was persistant; said he shouldn’t leave. ‘It’s a stupid idea’, he said with the countless times he tried himself clutching onto him. Kind of a pathetic thing to argue over, but he was persistent to get Pittoo to come with him, while he believed Lucas was a complete idiot.

The yelling came easy.

Or maybe it wasn’t yelling. It was a mess for sure, of what could be years of anger and unresolved conflict rushing up the throat, with slight advances and step backwards. Everything was derailing itself, one by one; every single flaw that never actually existed, every meaningless fight and accidental misconception, all derailing to pointless slander and anger.

He left before anything became physical.

 

Later that night and someone was outside his house.

An ugly red truck with no muffler sat at the corner of the street, and in the hazy lights stood Lucas back in that ugly windbreaker he wore on the first day of school. Pittoo didn’t even care to go down; if he wants to talk, he’ll face him like a man.

“ I’m leaving.” He calls.

“ Then go. I don’t care.”

“ So is this it?”

“ Sure. Why not.”

_ Is _ this it? The end of it? Nearly three years and it all just ends in one night. That can’t be healthy -- it can’t be healthy to watch your boyfriend climb into an ugly red truck and watch him speed off down the street. The light is gone and darkness takes it all back, and all that’s left is bushes beneath his window stomped down to it’s roots from all the times he’s jumped out, a shirt he forgot to give back, and a useless phone number.

 

He called it joke, but then Senior year rolled around, and Lucas’ name was off the roll call, and his apartment light was never on anymore, and the Guitar Center downtown had two employee positions up for hire.

It hurts.

It hurts like death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this is it. My last fic.
> 
> Hope it was okay.   
> Thanks for reading.


	6. Reste ici, ne me quitte pas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hopefully better ending to it all.

 

After a while, they stop at a hotel for once.

They must be at least five states away by now, long from gone from their old life. It’s odd to think about it; that there’s no going back. No going back.

The beds are comfortable.

Kumatora called an entire one for herself, refusing to share with Duster as she rolled herself up in it’s sheets and swatted at anybody who came near with her boot. There was a couch in the far corner, though very small, and he offered to sleep on it so that Lucas could sleep comfortably on the bed.

“ I’ll take the couch,” He said, staring emptily at the brown block, “ It’s fine.”

The room soon smells like coffee, and Lucas opens the window. Kumatora fidgets with the TV, and Duster goes off somewhere down the halls for a snack machine. Hotels are weird; Lucas hates how clean they are, though the softness of the blankets is nice. It’s nice.

It’s nice.

Lights are out at nine, the TV at ten. The still light of the lamps outside seep in through the window, and Lucas can barely make out their forms from across the room.

No sleep.

“ This is really it,”

“ Go to sleep Lucas,” Kumatora tosses a pillow at him blindly. It misses, and hits a chair.

He can’t. He won’t. There’s something missing out of it all, something left unsaid that could’ve made it all better. This didn’t actually have to happen, did it? He could’ve worked it out, they could’ve come together, found a way to get him to see his point of view.

Did he even care? At all, in his entire time of knowing Lucas? Did he really believe in those things he said when they slept together, when they were next to each other, when they were together?

This didn’t have to happen.

He still has a key in his pocket, next to his phone number. Lucas can try again.

The couch wheezes slightly, and Lucas barely glances back at his friends sleeping as he makes his way to the door and slips out.

Have you ever noticed how ugly hotel hallway rugs are? This one is brown with dark blue triangles, and Lucas can’t help but keep his eyes peeled on it as he walks down the hallway; it even runs down the long stairs, and his eyes follow that too. One step, two step, right on the triangles. He isn’t shaking. This isn’t a mistake.

This didn’t have to happen.

There’s a key lock on the back door, and he slides the plastic card through, pulling the push door on the first try, nearly pushing it off the hinges on the second try. It’s loud, and he doesn’t like it as it slams.

It’s dark, but street lamps dot the way across the highway, diverging down into individual neighborhoods; East heads into town, and West leads into a neighborhood. Where did they come in from ? East? This is the back of the building, they entered the front. He can’t trail around, that’s weird; he’ll just make a break for it here.

Lucas doesn’t know why he started running.

It’s winter, yet places this far South doesn’t get snow. It’s all clear skies above, and green grass still grows thickly in front of the various fenced-in houses running down each road, the trees still shaking with green leaves awaiting fall.

Can the people sleeping hear his sneakers hit the cement? He can’t even hear it over his own breathing, but he can’t stop running. Streets keep cutting off, turning, splitting; signs mean nothing, houses all blur together. Will his house be down one of these turns, despite being so far away? Maybe if he keeps running.

At once his legs stop, but everything lurches forward; his head, his chest, his heart. How long has he been going, how long has his jacket been suffocating him? 

There’s someone watching him as he stands at yet another split in the road; just a few lampposts away stood someone, he couldn’t tell who. Everything is blurry. Everything is racing. They’re in pink, and blue, and yellow, and there’s two. Two.

Two.

They wave at him.

What time is it?

“ Hey, mister.” One of the blobs call. It sounds like the voice of an angel.

He runs.

The sound similar to a bicycle chain spinning echoes down the street.

Was this the end? Was he just going to run away from everything, as if that’s not what he’s already been doing? There’s so much left for him to do; finish school, find a job, get married, be someone; but he keeps running away. Running away is all he can do, right?

This didn’t have to happen, but he let it.

The voice echoes behind him, and for a moment he stops. It’s in these small moments where the pounding in his head is truly insufferable.

No.

No.

He has to keep going. He does. The voices get quieter. He detours through lawns. There’s nothing he can do but detour, run away, find loopholes, run away.

He meets a fence, and it’s all over.

Everything finally comes back.

The grass is cold, and his jeans are seemingly soaked from the midnight dew that lathered his socks. There’s sweat running down his face, his throat hurts, his eyes hurt, and he can only feel the earth beneath him as he catches his breath. It’s dark, but there’s a light behind him, voices following.

Something stops, and there’s a hand on his back.

“ Hey mister! Are you alright?”

There’s a chain dangling near his face, it’s gold and it’s in the shape of a cross. It’s connected to the body of a girl, who has a large nose and thick curls and a pink dress that seems endlessly tethered in lace. She looks twelve.

“ No,” Was that even coherent? It sounded like a squeak, “ I-I…. I need to….”

There’s tears forming, and they hurt. Lucas can’t cry now, he has no energy. He can’t. He can’t.

“ I n-n-eed to go h-h-h-ome…”

“ Where do you live?” The mystery girl asks. Her voice is soft, like a mother’s, and it hurts.

“ T-t-tazmily.”

“ Holy shit.” A voice says behind him.

They’re kids; two of them. The sound he heard was the bike they came on, an old beat up bike with a rusted chain and colorful spokes. They introduced themselves as Ness and Paula; they had to be barely teenagers, though Paula held herself up like an adult. Ness lended no help at all, besides some odd glances at Lucas’ dirty attire and a trip on his back as Paula trailed behind.

They took Lucas back to Ness’ house, setting him on the porch.

“ I’ll go get my mom.”

Lucas was shaking. 

He really did want to cry, to just cry and let everything overtake him; he wanted to go back home, go back to his bed and his horrible school with too much homework; to his horrible apartment that was so warm and smelled like black coffee, to the sound of Kumatora’s truck rumbling in his yard as he sneaks out to a late-night party; he wanted to go back to his mother and father and brother, to a time where everything was fine and didn’t move a mile a minute.

He wanted to see Pittoo again.

Everything was blurry. Ness’ mom was nice, and wore a dress that looked a lot like the one Hinawa wore; she came out in slippers and bedhead, gasped at the sight of a runaway boy on her front porch crying his eyes out, and called the police.

They called his father. They called the police. He was going home; it was fine, he was going to go home. He was going back to Tazmily, he was going home. It was fine.

This was meant to happen. He wanted this.

What about Kumatora and Duster? They had nothing. This was a choice they couldn’t go back on, he couldn’t rat them out the police.

But what was going to happen when they woke up, to find him gone, to see his name in the morning news as a founded runaway? Where was the trust, where was their plan to be a family on their own, to love each other and care for each other? They did this for Lucas, for him. All for him.

They loved him so much. They did this all for him.

He cried on the porch. He cried in the police car.

He cried at the station where they questioned him and called his father, he cried in the blue plastic chair that he was sat in as he listened to his father cry and pray through the receiver phone that he was alright. 

They kept him overnight for questioning, said his father was coming for him.

This was really happen.

A criminal record for running away.

Morning comes quietly, and the clock down the hall barely strikes six when there’s family friends a next state over there to pick him up. He doesn’t recognize them, he’s too dehydrated. They speak softly to him, like a little kid, but grip his arm tightly, like he’s going to run away.

No more running away.

They ask him if he can fly alone, and in a haze he nods and tenses in the back of their car. It smells like hay and what he assumes dead people smell like.

Lucas’ clothes feel disgusting, and his head hurts and his feet are sore. The family friends play the music softly, but it still cracks his skull.

The earliest plane to Tazmily is at eight a.m.

Airports always smell like bleach and feel sad.

Everything is just too much for him, like he’s an autopilot; the lines feel like hours when it’s only minutes, and the ladies at the desk ask if he has any luggage.

Lucas left all his stuff at the hotel. Everything. His clothes, his books, his shoes, his dog.

Boney.

Boney is with them.

They arrange him to sit alone, and a flight attendant accompanies him. Strict orders to keep him under surveillance.

He just nods and asks for a bottle of water.

They stick his head, Kumatora and Duster. Maybe they’ll forgive him for this; maybe they’ll yell at him, and never wish to see him again. Either is a perfectly fine reaction, really. Toss his stuff out. Forget him. It’s fine.

It’s fine? I guess.

The plane touches down at eleven, and Lucas is positive they’re awake by now. Have to be.

It’s a Tuesday.

He stands there at the end of the tunnel, all alone. Lucas doesn’t want to look at him, even when he takes him into his arms and hugs him. It’s an odd sensation, and he doesn’t try to hug back, but his father shows no intent of letting go.

There’s no yelling, or anger, or sadness, or tears. Just silence.

Silence is fine. It’s good.

The apartment is the same as it ever was, but something was…. Different. It felt bigger, emptier than before. It wasn’t cramped anymore, it wasn’t suffocating; it was sad, and lonely, and big, and empty.

Was it always liked this?

Flint made him breakfast, even though it was nearly noon.

He’ll throw it up later, but for now he took what he was given and never said a word as they sat down, together, at the dinner table. 

Maybe it was always this silent.

A shower. A change of clothes. A nap.

His room wasn’t touched beyond what he took, and soon he took it all in; all of his brother’s stuff sitting, untouched, next to his stuff, untouched. Clothes, posters, bedsheets, supposedly never to be touched ever again.

As if both of them had died.

 

Sleep came easy this time.

 

It was four when he woke up, and suddenly he remembered the phone number still shoved in his pants pocket.

Could he try again?

Could he try again?

The number was a home phone, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything besides the loud dial-up noises.

It went straight to voicemail.

Again and again, he tried and tried, but it all went to voicemail. He tried to remember his phone, but it all came up in telemarketer numbers and disconnected lines. He wanted to break the machine, he wanted to throw it off the table and bang his head against a wall and cry.

There was only one last thing he could do, which was bite the bullet and go right to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s something somber in the way his house sways with the trees. 

There’s two cars out front, and Lucas couldn’t find it in himself to laugh at how broken his car is after all this time. No more laughing, or crying, or yelling.

This was really happening.

It felt like nobody was home, the house looked so empty. Curtains were drawn, no noise, no nothing; just a distant echo of the chickens they kept in the backyard coop.

He knocked on the door, something so foreign to him.

The feeling crept back into his chest, that of the pain and hurt he felt that night on the balcony, which felt like so long ago. That argument was so stupid, what was it even about? Where did it derail, who’s fault was it, if anybody’s? So stupid; he let it get to him, it all happened because he held onto those feelings. Those shitty feelings.

Something shuffled behind the door, and soon he was face-to-face with his ex-boyfriend.

Did it always hurt this much to look at him? Did the pain shows on his face, or was it from the hours of crying and tears running down his face, all the days of wearing the same clothes and refusing to brush his hair, of eating at such an unhealthy pace that he dropped so many pounds and grew out his hair dye, refused to at all to clean himself up.

Was there any talking, or was he yelling from the start? Whatever, he deserves it. It was his idea, and there was nothing left to be angry about; his time was up, and now all eyes were on Pittoo.

Hands made their way to his neck -- but the viciousness left, and sadness came quickly as he flung himself onto Lucas. His anger wasn’t scary anymore as it fell to tears, to sobs and screams and empty anger pent up for so many months after his disappearance.

Lucas couldn’t control it, he started crying too; for the first time he finally hugged someone back, and there was so much pain in it. Could any of these be fixed?

Who knows how long he stood there and took it, all the hatred-turned-sadness, all the vile words and promises and chances Pittoo could’ve taken to easily push Lucas onto his back and beaten him senseless on the sidewalk like he should’ve done.

It’ll be a while before anything was okay again, but after all of it they were still there, holding onto each other. The anger was okay, the sadness was okay. Everything hurt, but this is how you fix things. You must let yourself hurt.

It was a while before he died down, but he didn’t let go. The shaking turned rocking, and Lucas’s arms found their way back around Pittoo’s, softly, gently holding him.

This was really happening.

This could work.


End file.
